They call me Alaurilee

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I've been writing poetry from the age of 12. It has, and always will be my outlet, my voice. Join me on my journey . . . I can write about almost anything. :) ~ Life doesn't come with a shiny new book; no users manual of answers to find with one look. Life comes with doors that open and shut; and paths laid before us to be followed or passed up. There's things we can learn and things we may teach; hearts that may find us and souls we may reach. Guaranteed on this journey are teacups of tears; and pains that might hurt us may age us by years. But the beauty of life, love, laughter and giving; come from serving hugs on a platter each and every day we're living. ~

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Broken Promises

A promise is a tricky thing.
You can make it and you can keep it,
but you can’t change it without breaking it.

It’s perception really.
How it’s viewed by all.
Each view carries a life of its own
and each view has its own truth,
even when there are opposing other truths.
Many conflicting truths may exist.
This does not make them less true…
…or more so either.

In many cases, a promise is made
with the grandest intentions.
Rarely with the thought of ever breaking it
because if that were the case, why make it at all?

Then again, there are emotions.
They have their role in it all,
a rather major role really.
They make us who we are.
They lead us down roads.

And then we find things change.

We change—we evolve—we devolve.

Then what happens to these promises?
To these broken promises?

They change—they evolve—they devolve.

Then we find we truly don’t know what else to do.
So we pause to pat ourselves on the back,
for no reason other than—because!

Then we do what only we can do,
we keep the biggest promise of all.

We go on—we don’t give up—we start again.

No broken promises—not this one.

Be true to me—that is what we do.

11/19/2010 Posted at d'Verse Poets Pub -

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Majestic Mansion

                          Image by Dirk Juergensen

Jules starred into the vast distance.
The old, majestic Mansion loomed ahead.
The tree lined lane was filled with brush, and limbs and death.
Those limbs had shaded that lane for many a generation.
Jules removed his hat and shook his head.
He was filed with dread.

Jules bit his lip and uttered a silent prayer.
It had been too long since he'd journeyed this way.
He had been young and dumb, full of himself and full of stubborn pride.
But then, so were many men of his generation.
He'd been gone now for many a day.
Lived his life, had his way.

Jules thought long and hard and closed his eyes.
He heard the sound of the rippling waves and birds crying.
His mind wandered to another time and place.
Before he grew too big for all of this.
Before loved ones started dying.
Before rumors started flying.

He lost track and he floated through that time.
The rowboat slowly cracked into a huge old tree.
He snapped back to today; to this time and this place.
He gently guided the boat through the waters.
The old Mississippi had been set free.
Overcome its banks and made all this mess you see.

Now Jules family homestead loomed ahead.
What used to be a tree-lined lane was now a lake.
He only hoped the family he'd run from . . . was here for him to rescue.
It had taken him years to get here, he needed them to be here.
He had things he needed to say, amends he needed to make.
He only hoped it wasn't too late.

He pulled the rowboat close to the familiar old gate.
His hands shook as he pulled the boat close and tied it tight.
This was the moment of truth, the moment he'd been hiding from.
Why did he wait until this catastrophe of nature to come calling?
He used his fingers to cross his forehead, an old Catholic right.
He hadn't done it in years, but right now it felt right.

Jules jumped out of the boat into the cold, clammy water.
It took his breathe away as his heart started to race.
He almost lost his balance but used the gate to steady himself.
He lumbered forward trying to keep calm, trying to keep faith.
The water was deeper than he had thought, almost to his waist.
He did not know if he was ready for what he might face.

He made it to the front door, slightly cracked open.
He looked up into the northern window, to the place that Mama was kept.
Was that a candle in the window, or a figment of his imagination?
He was born in that room, and his Mama had died in that room.
He cried silent tears for the woman he had never met.
He made his way to that room, saw his father and wept.


prompted from a photo prompt at @MyWordWizard

Also posted at:
11.6.2011 Poetry Pantry Week 74
11.29.2001 dVerse Open Link Night